


Not About Winning

by OkayAristotle



Series: Compatible Differences [5]
Category: DCU (Comics)
Genre: Drunk Sex, Emotionally Repressed Grown Men, Idiots in Love, Literal Sleeping Together, M/M, POV Hal Jordan, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-16
Updated: 2020-10-16
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:01:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27043159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OkayAristotle/pseuds/OkayAristotle
Summary: In the morning, Hal will blame it on a lot of things. A dozen beers, or the nachos, or Clark's timely confession. Any number of things. But that's in the morning, and he'd really like to spend the night.Set after Chapter 4 of Our Fears Face Us.
Relationships: Hal Jordan/Bruce Wayne
Series: Compatible Differences [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1766782
Comments: 11
Kudos: 140





	Not About Winning

**Author's Note:**

> Because I love two absolute idiots and I felt Bruce was a little... lonely, in Compatible Differences. Let's saddle him with an annoying, infuriating, incredibly handsome little shit, yeah? 
> 
> Big thanks to Kalech and Romiress for reading it over.

The thing about Stately Wayne Manor was that it was stupid. 

It was a building built before Bruce's ancestors had any clue what a clusterfuck they'd claimed. On a shitty hill that flooded every wet season, with a mudslide or two on the side with leering cliffs because Wayne's were _dramatic_ like that. 

It loomed over an entire city like a bad omen, glittering lights in the windows except for the countless useless rooms nobody touched. It had at least four bathrooms that Hal had managed to find in the limited time he'd been allowed within its walls. 

The driveway was dumbest of all. No one _needed_ a driveway at least a mile long with blind turns and no signposts. The only feature that stood out was the wrought-iron gates, a little intercom built into the side, and the butler always seemed within arms-reach of the other end. It was uncanny, how quickly he could be buzzed in. 

And that was if he took the road. Never mind taking a quick walk up, or stopping by during daylight hours. That was a no-go, considering Hal liked his legs not to be made of jelly _before_ he's been fucked over an antique wingback armchair. 

Never mind flying. From up top, Wayne Manor was shrouded in fucking darkness, a few little balconies poking out of the walls, a couple high spires that tried to spear him through every time. This time was no different, but that may have been the amount of beers he'd had. 

Necessary beers, though. Entirely deserved. It took a special brew to handle listening to— well, what he had listened to. 

Hal still wasn't quite sure what he'd listened to, in all honesty. Somewhere between beer number six and getting helped out of the bar, he'd decided it was best to speak to the only other idiot in on this. Not Deathstroke— no, thank you, not his type— 

Bruce looked incredibly unimpressed. 

He also looked tired, when Hal's brain stopped doing a merry-go-round in his skull. It was definitely late. Probably too late. Bruce was in pajamas. 

Or what passes for pajamas, when you were Bruce — rich and stoic and kinda extremely handsome at all hours of the day, regardless of how badly he'd been stabbed that night. Maybe because of it. Hal frowned. 

"Something I can help you with, Lantern?" 

He drags his eyes up, skin tight under his domino. And what an _up_ it was, from the lattice of scars over thick, tense thighs, the prominent weight in his _illegally tight_ boxers — black, of course, and that never failed to amuse Hal — and the abs that he distinctly remembers the taste of. Bruce's jaw, in need of a shave. The tired lines around his eyes, one eyebrow arched. 

"Yeah," he mumbles. "What the fuck." 

Bruce's mouth twitches, displeased. "You'll have to be more specific." 

"I want to make this clear, for anything I may regret later — I've had a lot to drink and I think I hallucinated the last four hours." Hal starts, holding up a finger. "You knew Superman was _dating Deathstroke_ and never thought to mention?" 

"I don't see how it's relevant, Hal." He intones. Shifts on his bare feet and crosses his arms, muscles fucking bulging and yes, Hal is low enough to forget why he was even here in the first place for a split second. "Hal." 

"Seriously?" Hal cocks his head. "Never thought to drop that tidbit. Not once. It must have been eating you alive." 

"Not all of us have a pathological need to divulge personal details at every opportunity." 

"Asshole." Hal throws back, and knows he's being immature, but well — Bruce is doing that thing, all the walls and the blank, and it is _so_ hard to take seriously when he knows what that man's cock tastes like after sex. He squints. "You locking me out again?" 

"Haven't decided." Bruce hums. "What are you here for?" 

Hal chews his tongue. "What are you hoping for?" 

Bruce stares, and flexes his fingers over his biceps, and then steps aside with a sigh. "Get in." 

"Thanks." He says, and waits until he's actually _in_ before he sets foot on the ground. His skin tingles where the domino melts away, a dizzying feeling coupled with the warmth of Bruce's room, nearly a damn sauna. 

"You're drunk." Bruce comments lightly, locking the balcony window again. Pulling the heavy, probably custom-made curtains and blocking out the brief flash of moonlight. 

"That wasn't a secret." Hal replies. Feels unbalanced when the room feels about ten sizes too large but that's just _Bruce's room._ Why, he has no clue, when only a quarter of it actually gets used. 

The bed, which is both sinfully comfortable and large enough for an entire playboy orgy, and the nightstand. The two armchairs, set into a little corner covered in bookshelves. Bruce's desk, mostly littered with empty coffee cups because the man is a chronic slob. The rest is left artfully arranged and mostly untouched.

He frowns, turns in a circle twice and regrets it immediately, Bruce a little fuzzy at the edges when he focuses on him again. "How long did you know?" 

"A few weeks." Bruce answers blandly. Like it's the weather, or one of the stock reports holding strong over breakfast. "Did you expect me to run to you, the moment I knew?" 

"Well, no, but—" 

Bruce sighs. "Just ask what you want to ask." 

Hal stares. Looks at the mussed edges of Bruce's inky hair, un-put-together for once in his life. He's never seen Bruce look like that outside of Wayne Manor. Like a human, tired and a little messy, and unfairly muscled in all the right places. 

"Is that why we fucked?" He swallows hard, tasting the foam of frankly expensive craft beer. "Because you found out." 

Bruce's face flickers, visibly rifling through responses. Little pre-written statements, designed to shuffle dates out the door. Hal has never been that, will _never_ be that, but he holds his tongue. Waits it out. "Yes." Bruce says. "And no." 

"It can't be both." 

"Can't it?" He huffs a little noise, not quite a laugh. More like the noise a dog makes when it's particularly put-out. Hal follows when Bruce slides onto the bed, one knee tucked under himself, shifting the paperback he'd been reading out of the way. "You don't want to do this right now, Hal." 

"Don't I?" He asks, narrowing his eyes. Feels overdressed in a nice shirt and jeans, uncomfortable. He's never been this dressed in Bruce's bed for long. "Cause it sure sounds like you fucked me, to forget about them fucking." 

"If you think that, you're less mature than I'd previously thought." Bruce injects. He thumbs the edge of his book, eyes drifting down to focus on that, rather than the short distance between them. How badly Hal's throat feels like it's clogging up. 

"I think you fucked me, the same day you found out." 

"Day after, actually." Bruce murmurs, dry. When he meets Hal's eyes, there's no amusement, no softness. "I walked in on them, one night. Holding a bottle from outer space." He adds. 

"It was a favor." Hal bites back. 

"A very stupid favor." 

He rolls his eyes, vision swimming. "They'd have fucked without it." What he'd do for a little bit of that — the fucking, and the drink. "So, what, you saw them. Thought maybe it was high time you removed the stick up your ass and got some too?" 

Bruce thins his mouth sharply, a grimace at Hal's words. "Are you really going to make me say it—" He pauses, leaning over to eye the clock on the nightstand. "At one in the morning, Harold Jordan, while you are drunk." 

"Say what." He bites out, because he likes a few extra nails in his coffin.

Bruce's face flickers again. The lines at the corners of his eyes crease, thick eyelashes fluttering when he closes his eyes and mutters a curse. "I thought that if those two could manage it, of all the people." Bruce chews his cheek, discarding the book. "Then I may as well try with the one person I wanted to make it work with." 

Hal fights down the urge to belch. It would probably ruin the mood. The tense, throbbing edge of Bruce's jaw says he knows anyway. Hal frowns. 

"You're a fuckin' idiot, you know that right?" Hal finally says. His tongue feels about ten sizes too big, and his hands may as well be knitted mittens when he sets them on Bruce's shoulders. 

The other man leans away like he's being approached by a particularly large spider, or a grown-ass man capable of a few emotions. "Hal." 

"Bruce." He repeats, voice slow. "I like that stick up your ass." Leans in, mouth tasting of craft beer and the nachos he'd paid inordinate amounts of money for. "And I'd like to think we can make it work better than they can." 

"This is not a competition." Bruce says, but doesn't seem annoyed in the slightest. He allows it when Hal slides closer, onto his lap, thighs bracketing his. "And I don't have a stick—" 

"This is absolutely a competition." Hal corrects lightly. "And I'm pretty sure you do have a stick, but I can check, if you'd like." 

Bruce snorts. Warmth radiates from his skin, his hair soft when Hal's fingers tunnel in, finding the spot at the base of his skull that always makes Bruce sigh softly into his mouth. "That was a very lackluster come-on." 

"What makes you think it was a come-on? Some of us are worried, Bruce." Hal replies, gravity forced into his words. He breaks after a second, leaning in close to taste the other man's mouth, grinning when he opens up with little fight. 

Bruce hums, and meets his tongue warmly. He was a good kisser that first time, not quite generic but there had been— reserves. Learning curves for the both of them. He pulls back to nip Hal's lip, tugging gently with a rumble. Much better now. A quick learner. _Competent_ , is how Bruce would probably put it. And then something about how Hal couldn't kiss his way out of a paper bag, despite getting Bruce off once at nearly seven in the morning with nothing more than his mouth and hand, the other man half-asleep. 

Hal licks into his mouth, maps out his gums and teeth and the soft ridges of his palate since he last did it. Not that long ago, at all. 

The one thing that wasn't a lie about Bruce Wayne's reputation seemed to be how _often_. And fuck was it often. Fresh from patrol and pumped full of adrenaline. Before League meetings and after, on whatever flat surface he could find quickest, and Hal now had intimate knowledge of the contents of the _B_ _atbelt,_ which was something he never thought he'd have but that is beside the point— 

Bruce liked it often. Hal found he liked that, too. 

He grinds his hips forward, pressing the growing hard-on in his pants against the hard planes of Bruce's stomach. Strong hands grip his hips, force him down, and Hal can't help a quiet laugh into his mouth at that. 

"Anybody ever tell you, you're a little bit selfish?" He murmurs. Doesn't mind one bit, when the rise of Bruce's cock is prominent and insistent. 

Bruce doesn't answer that, instead dragging his mouth along to Hal's jaw. He bites, hard, and soothes it with wet, hot kisses, working his way down. 

"Left the tag on, I see." Bruce murmurs. Kisses his throat, Hal's eyes widening. "Planning to return it so soon? I liked the color." 

"We'll see how good the superhero gig pays the bills this month." He huffs. Ignores the compliment in favor of working a hand between them, fingers curling into the thick hair there. "Was kind of hoping it wouldn't— _ah, ah_ —" Bruce suckles hard, right under his jaw, a sensation that goes straight to the tip of his cock. "—be in returnable condition. If you get my drift." 

Bruce nips his skin and moves on, one hand deftly working on the buttons. "You talk too much." He comments. 

"You like when I talk." Hal says into his mouth. Bruce tastes like coffee, bitter at the back of his teeth, a hint of whiskey. His shirt is removed quickly, Hal helping with numb fingers, throwing it to the floor with a snort. "Blue's not my color, anyway."

"I liked it." Bruce repeats. With skin bared, he moves on, methodical, and Hal can practically see the checklist in his mind. From collarbones to the planes of his chest, bite a nipple until Hal squirms, push him back and lick down his abdomen— 

Hal twists his fingers into Bruce's hair and pushes, his own hands hungry to reach for bare skin. His cock aches between his thighs, decidedly ignored the last few days because fuck, things could get busy sometimes. How Bruce always found time for a fuck or a handjob was beyond him. Hal wasn't half as organized for that, and took his orgasms when they presented themselves. This was definitely being presented. 

He fumbles with the button of his jeans and shuffles from them in the most undignified way possible. But at least he'd pre-warned, should anything embarrassing come up. 

"You're so handsome," Bruce says, apropos of absolutely nothing. He watches, rather than helps, as Hal removes his clothes with all the grace of a man a dozen beers deep. 

"Not so bad yourself." Hal replies, a little breathless, and moves in to kiss him again. Too long since the last time. Still tastes like coffee. He hums as he sucks on Bruce's lip, and blindly reaches for the other man's cock. 

Through the layer of fabric, Bruce's skin runs hot, heavy in Hal's palm when he finds the right angle and strokes him slow, tight, exactly how he's come to learn he likes it. Drags each movement out until Bruce's hips lift into his touch, a heavy feeling in Hal's chest at that. 

"Like this?" He asks. Drags his mouth to the rough edge of Bruce's jaw, suckling a fresh bruise in where he might be able to hide it, under layers of concealer. "Want me to ride you?" Hal takes Bruce's grunt as agreement, squeezes the tip of his cock in a tight fist. "Been thinking about it?" 

"You know I have." Bruce mumbles. Both eyes slide open to fix Hal with a soft gaze, Bruce's hands splayed wide over his hips to tug him closer. "Did you? Think about it." 

"Fuck, yeah." It feels impossibly good to reach in, wrap his fingers around hot skin and the already wet tip of his cock, one thumb spreading it over the crown. "All the time." He admits. 

Blames it on the drunkness when he flushes red, and thinks too long on what that means. Bruce, ever the gracious lover, lets it slide with nothing more than a slow roll of his hips, fucking into Hal's hand. 

"Not gonna last long," he says. Furrows his brows and chases Hal's fingers when he withdraws. For someone nearing his forties, he looks awfully petulant right then, and nips at Hal's shoulder with intent. 

"You think I'm gonna let you finish _now?"_ He snorts quietly. 

The best thing about Stately Wayne Manor, for all it's stupidity, was how many bottles of lube it had hidden about the place. He'd call Bruce a sex fiend, if he wasn't also thoroughly enjoying it. Bruce takes the offered bottle with a frown, popping the cap to slick up a few fingers. 

He draws Hal in for another kiss, one strong arm coming to wrap around his waist and pull him in close. Licks the soft side of his tongue like he wants to never stop, and it's distracting enough that Hal doesn't need to breathe to let him in. 

A moan escapes at the first knuckle, Bruce's finger gentle and blunt, and incredibly familiar at this point. He works a second in, only to the first knuckle again, and tugs experimentally, the sensation driving straight to his cock. Hal pants against his mouth, pinned against his chest, not quite able to do anything more than weave his hands into Bruce's hair and hold on. 

Inside, Bruce stretches him at a nearly fucking glacial pace, nothing beyond the tight ring of muscle and it is _infuriating_ for a hot minute, Hal's kisses turned rough when Bruce finally pushes in a little deeper. Hits the spots that Hal loves, fingers thick and skilled, so very _competent_. 

"You're a nightmare." He comments with a gasped breath, rocking down on Bruce's hand and more than a little annoyed when he's held in place. "I can take it." 

"I know you can." Bruce hums. His hand, the one settled on his hip, squeezes lightly. "You need a lesson in patience." 

"I do fucking not." 

Those two _glorious_ fingers withdraw, Hal's hole clenching on air for a hot minute as if to prove a point, before they return. Bruce dips into him easily, fingers spreading wide to open him up, never quite _full._ He whines, and hopes it does the trick, Bruce's cock trapped against his thigh. 

"There you go," Bruce murmurs, voice dipped low. Tugs at Hal's rim before he slides a third in, more than easy when Hal feels like he'll go a little nuts if Bruce doesn't learn the virtue of speed. "Want more?" 

Hal clenches down. "You're a bastard, and a nightmare." 

Bruce hums, turning his head when Hal makes to nip at his skin with intent. There was always something mesmerizing about making Bruce— not bleed, but close. Little scrapes of teeth that left his perfect mouth bruised and red. 

It feels like an age, or an impossibly long League lecture, or any number of slow, torturous things — exams and flights over the Atlantic and how long it had taken to ride the elevator up to Bruce's office that one time — before he feels the crown of Bruce's cock at his entrance, thick and hot and accepted easily when Hal wriggles down. 

"Fuck," Hal gasps. 

Bruce, because he _is_ both a bastard and a nightmare, hums, "Indeed." He doesn't move, and Hal gets the hint after a moment. Right. Riding. Good. He can do that. Can shut up and ride with the best of them, maybe make Bruce make one of those strangled, deep noises he only really hears when he's been stabbed, or poked with a needle too many times— 

Bruce's nails dig into his skin, gripping what little softness there is with all he has. Hal moans, sinks down with as much patience as he possibly can. Not much, but it's enough to get him through with minimal pain. Somehow, Bruce's kiss is both hungry, demanding, and impossibly gentle, never quite leaving when Hal lifts up, braced against his shoulders, and sinks right back down. 

"So good," Hal says, tongue wet and quick and all out of order when he continues, "You always feel so good, so fucking good, Christ, how do they let you _walk around with all that—"_ and chokes when Bruce grinds up, a steady press of his hips that nearly lifts Hal off the bed. 

"Hal," he murmurs. Bites at Hal's bottom lip, a crease between his sharp eyebrows when Hal's gaze chooses to focus. This close, he can spot a small scar, inconsequential in the grand scheme of Bruce's scars, a little thing that disappears into his hairline. 

"Fuck, what?" He mumbles, mouth tingling. Breaks away from Bruce's mouth just to press quick, heavy kisses to his skin, up to that scar and down to his jaw. Feels a little possessed with the need to get his mouth everywhere— _definitely the drink_ , he decides, and suckles a deep, dark bruise on Bruce's throat to match all the others he's been given recently. 

There was always bruises. Over the ridges of Bruce's ribs, and the soft spot beneath his solar plexus. Last week, the remnants of a boot in his thigh, and he'd asked Hal to dig his fingers into it, what a heady fucking _feeling_ that had been, Bruce's groan pained and pleasured when he'd come between them. 

Right at the start, that first time. And it had been Bruce's back, a patchwork of purple and red, nearly _black_ , and he'd fucked Hal just like this. Bucked into him, hands gripping strong, mouth hot and warm and Hal's spine had felt a little like liquid when he'd finally trembled his way through an orgasm. Hadn't seen the bruises till after, of course, and that had only started— an argument, of sorts. 

If he could call it arguing over the edge of an antique couch, Bruce's hips driving his point home repeatedly. 

This time it's the same, though Hal gets the feeling it's a slightly different point. Feels that way when Bruce licks into his mouth, at odds with the punch of his cock, slow and explorative and pouring molten hot _want_ down Hal's insides. He moans as much as he's able, and makes breathless, stuttered noises when he can't, head starting to swim. 

"Gonna be sick?" Bruce asks quietly, in between beats. His hand, the one that's buried itself in Hal's hair, strokes against his scalp with strong fingers. 

"No," he mutters, screws his eyes shut. "Gonna fuckin' scream if you don't _fuck me_ , you bastard, you _fucking asshole, come on,_ " Bruce does as he's told, and Hal's mind feels far too fucked out to pray right then, disconnected and stupid when he groans, "Please, fuck, harder, _please harder, baby, come on, know I want your cock—_ " he holds on, digs his nails and his teeth in, grips Bruce like he wants to brand him and his stupid, traitorous mouth opens again, a slurred litany of praise and moans and _heat._

"Do you ever shut up?" Bruce grunts, somewhere between jack-knifing Hal's soul from his body and destroying the mattress beneath them. 

"Do you ever fucking _talk—"_ he grits out, keens high in his throat when Bruce finds his prostate with infuriating accuracy and beats it into submission with single-minded determination. All his nerves feel raw and drunk, his limbs heavy and light all at once, Hal's forehead damp when it drops to Bruce's shoulder and watches his own cock bounce with the force of each thrust. "Fuckin' love you, love your cock, love how you feel in me— _fuck, wanna feel it all the fuckin' time, baby—"_ a strangled noise escapes his throat, heavy and painful and animal, and he feels when Bruce registers the words just as much as Hal had. 

Bruce comes first, right then and there, and bites Hal's shoulder hard enough he tips over the edge too, drunk and tired and _stupid._

"Fuck." Bruce breathes, chest rising and falling in heavy pants. 

Hal closes his eyes against— the bright lights, and Bruce's palm against his temple, Hal's stupid fucking words hanging in the air like neon signs. "I warned you. I'm drunk." He says, equally out of breath.

He hears, rather than sees, Bruce's skull thunk against the headboard. Inside him, his cock gives a valiant little twitch, still hard, and Hal clenches against the sensation. 

"You're trouble, is what you are." 

"How kind of you." He murmurs. Swallows around the heaviness in his throat. Their skin sticks when he makes to move, Bruce's chest stuttering when his cock shifts. "I should go." 

"You'll hit a building." 

"Should still go." He murmurs. "C'mon, let me up." The arm that's wrapped around him only tightens, Bruce's nails scraping at already sore skin. He's so _warm_ , lax despite the tension in the room, and Hal never would have thought a man so supremely _jacked_ could be so comfortable. 

He wants to sink in and never leave. That— that is a dangerous thought, and he knows it. 

"I got shit to do." He tries. Doesn't make a move, anyway. "Bruce." 

"Mm." 

"Don't do this." He mumbles. Creases his eyebrows and even his fingertips _ache_ , nerves fucked raw, and none of Hal's muscles will fucking _listen_ to him when he needs to _go._

Against his temple, Bruce sighs. "Don't do what?" The bite of his nails eases up, replaced by calluses, a painfully gentle touch to Hal's buzzing skin. "Don't stop you from doing something stupid, like fly into a building or thinking—" His voice did something uncharacteristic, a slight break in that soothing baritone that Hal had never heard, "—would it kill you, to sleep here. Can you really not stand me that much."

He screws his eyes shut until he can pretend, briefly, that doesn't fucking _hurt._ Guilt settles in his stomach like a Goddamned stone and he thinks, hysterically, how the fuck Clark _manages_ with a _mercenary._ Never mind someone like Bruce—

An absolute asshole, and Hal hates him on his very best days, bright and passionate and kind of unfairly hot whenever he smiles with all his teeth, and that voice that made Hal want to curl up and sleep for, oh, a thousand years, and how Hal kind of _lived_ for those times Bruce would squeeze his shoulder, or slide him an amused glance in the middle of someone else's argument, and how fucking _good_ he was, in and out of bed. 

Hal is not good with all this, when it comes to simple people. Never mind people like Bruce. 

He sighs, hot breath puffing over Bruce's collarbone. He should apologize, or something, call him _baby_ again and grind down on his cock, ignore the tenseness to Bruce's frame. "I'm known to steal blankets." Is what he says, quietly. 

"I usually kick them off." Bruce finally replies. 

Hal exhales heavily, and nods once. "Aren't we a match made in heaven." He winces until he hears Bruce's grunt, as close to a laugh as he can get without being drugged up on painkillers or sufficiently caught off-guard. 

It's nice. Hal has learned, quickly and over the course of many years, to take that noise as what it is. Bruce's laughs are good in all their forms, lighting a little fire in Hal's ribs that has him pressing closer. 

"Sorry I'm such a dick." He mumbles. Soft fingers card through his hair, tucking loose strands behind his ear. 

"You're drunk." Bruce allows. "You gonna get off my dick before we sleep?" 

"If you insist," he replies. Feels a little lighter, now that they've successfully avoided all the stupidity that had poured out of his mouth a few minutes ago. 

They move silently, Hal frowning slightly when he's shepherded to the shower for the quickest and most thorough scrub of his life. Feels a little dazed, but a lot more sober, by the time he's being welcomed under Bruce's comforter, the lights flicked off.

It's odd. Uncomfortable. Warm in all the wrong spots, and Hal feels a little like Bruce's mattress is trying to swallow him whole. Under the sheets, a hand closes around his wrist, tugs him in closer.

As promised, Bruce kicks the comforter away almost immediately. Hal bunches it under his thigh, curled on his side, and meets Bruce's soft blues in the dark. 

"Hey," he mumbles. Unoriginal as ever. 

Bruce's mouth twitches. "Hey." 

He can't think of anything else to say, after that. Bruce holds his gaze, close enough he can feel the warmth of his breath, the heat of his body. Not quite cuddling, but close. Hal's not sure he could handle cuddling right now. 

"You gonna make me breakfast in the morning?" 

"You know how to work a frying pan, don't you?" Bruce replies, one eyebrow arched. "And you know where the kitchen is." 

"I don't, actually." Hal throws back. "I was kinda carried there, and bent over a table." That had been good. Hal pressed over the perfect angle, Bruce's hips almost never leaving his, nothing more than harsh grinds and wet kisses to his neck, his shoulders. 

"I'll show you." Bruce finally says. "And then you can make your own breakfast." 

"Just admit you can't cook." Hal mumbles. Tucks the comforter under his chin, Bruce's fingers coming over to stroke along his forearm. 

Bruce's teeth flash briefly. "Goodnight, Hal." 

"It won't hurt. Just real quiet, say you're not perfect at something." 

"There are a lot of things I'm not perfect at." Bruce says, almost immediate in his reply. He digs his cheek into the pillow, holding Hal's gaze like it's important. He smiles again, just a little. "Cooking is one of those things." 

Maybe he is still a little drunk, because the grin on his mouth is loose and happy, and leaning in to kiss Bruce in his bed has never felt quite so natural. 

**Author's Note:**

> :3 will we see more? who knows. Comments and kudos are always appreciated, but not required.


End file.
